Sleep to Dream
by Radioheaded
Summary: The world ends not with a bang, but a whimper. Power is man's greatest enemy.
1. Chapter 1

Memo: Aaron Fleming, CC Jillian Michales, Steven Hariss, Aloya Linda

Concerning: FEA189

Congratulations are in order! The contract with Division X153 of the Department of Defense, has pushed us well into the black; if all goes well, we're assured a long-term deal. Figures are in the hundred billions if the contract runs its projected time (lasting at least until 2050). The product is making its way to headquarters now, while we begin isolating the compounds for the framework of the anti-serum. This will be addressed in the meeting; representatives from Quasark Laboratories, Phaazaar Inc and Seielman Pharmaceuticals will be in attendance.

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Lab notes, Subject X34YTB

Prior to Injection:

Excellent health; full medical work-up revealed normal cholesterol, protein synthesis and nutrients. No sign of cancers, infections or diseases.

Injection: Slight swelling around the wound immediately upon injection; disappeared moments later. A large bruise spread almost immediately with a diameter of 1.5 cm.

30 min: Heart rate triples, yet subject falls into a catatonic state. Brain waves are consistent with REM sleep.

60 min: Heart rate and inspiration begin to slow. Slight jerking in the front paws.

300 min: subject seems to regain consciousness; eyes open but subject does not respond to stimuli. Brainwaves are on the level of simple arithmetic problems.

310 minutes: Subject expires.

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It's dark; the tv casts s flickering blue on the pale face it illuminates. House is asleep on the couch; an unfortunate mix of alcohol and Vicodin slid his relaxation into sleep. When he wakes, he will swear at the stiffness in his leg.

When he wakes.

But for now he dreams. He dreams in color, in vivid color that doesn't exist in reality. They're beautiful, the images his mind gives him. It's a sort of respite; a moment of bliss to make up for constant pain.

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James Wilson can't sleep. It's early, six in the morning, so the TV that flashes in front of him shows nothing but news and infomercials. He's already showered; his teeth are brushed and flossed, his hair combed. He's run out of things to do, run out of ways to get ready, to take his mind off things that disrupt his sleep. So he stops at the news, points his glazed eyes at the screen and watches the latest horrors of the country. There's smoke and fire; an unnaturally blonde woman tells the story of a drug company truck being hijacked; its contents were stolen and the vehicle burned. The company has made a statement; apparently the drugs were part of an aids trial.

Wilson shakes his head, wonders about humanity for a moment. Then he gets up, goes to the bathroom and leaves his hotel. He'll stop along the way, get breakfast and drag House to work.

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Andrews isn't afraid. He'll go into the main building walking, talking and acting like Inspector Ronald Fratier, just like his id says. He waits now, silently in the waiting room chair, meditating. He thinks of the others, Johnson, Lopez, Sirenz, Yuleta. There are more, but their names escape him and it doesn't really matter; they're all pseudonyms anyway. The door opens in front of him; the receptionist lifts a hand and he's walking, introducing himself. Clasping a hand within his own, touching the warm flesh beneath and smiling, saying the wait was no problem. He's here now.

When they get to the main well system, a small, uncorked vial finds its way into the water. A drop splashes on Andrews' skin, but he doesn't notice. He says a silent prayer for his comrades and walks away, the perfect professional.

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House is running. It's easy, second nature. It's chilly out but his breaths are steady, delicate when they pour out of him and dance for a moment on the cool air. Unfortunately, he's dreaming. As his feet leave the ground swirls of color are left behind; pools of vibrant paint in shades never before mixed. He stops, hunches over, fingers digging into knees (and whole flesh above that) and examines his trail. His fingers aren't hesitant when they reach the color; they come back looking tie-dyed. But the color is moving, spreading down his hand, over his wrist and then there's pressure; a firm grip on his shoulder and he's sitting up until—

"Jesus, House!" His eyes open to see Wilson on the floor, gripping his head.

"Hey, I can't help my ninja reflexes." House tries to laugh, but his head pounds. The noise is cut short, a sort of rough bark. His hand moves up to his forehead; most of it hurts, which means there's sure to be a bruise there soon enough.

"Why were you watching me sleep?"

"I wasn't watching you sleep," A god-help-me tone washes into Wilson's voice. "I was trying to wake you up so we could go to breakfast before work."

"I'm sure." House gets up, palms a Vicodin and heads to the bathroom. "Didn't know you had a cripple fetish, Wilson."

"I'll be out in my car, House. Ten minutes and I go to breakfast alone."

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Cuddy waits in House's office. She scans a chart, unsure of where to begin. Patient was brought into the emergency room presenting no real symptoms other than raised heart rate. But an hour ago, he'd slipped into a coma. Only, it wasn't a coma. His brainwaves are active, and he responds to stimuli. It's as if he just can't wake up. But this is why Cuddy keeps House; he'll find the answer. He always does; an article will be written and her hospital will get a grant. She doesn't notice as House appears, jumps when a crack about her 'business' suit comes from thin air.

"Cute, House." She moves toward him, hands off the file.

"You'll like this one." She watches as House scans the chart, eyes lighting up with the promise of a new mystery. She leaves him to it, entering the cool hallway. She pauses near the door; spots have obscured her vision. But they clear, leaving her heart racing. She frowns, but rationalizes it with too much coffee. It's not until she's in her office, behind her desk that she collapses.


	2. Water, Water Everywhere

lj-cut When Cuddy is found, dragged out from under her desk, reports have already started to filter through to news networks. Vague information from anchors that cannot conceal their fear loops constantly; all the same details. Water is contaminated. It was supposed to be a military weapon, supposed to help the United States. But there's only a disease, no cure. And all test subjects, though they're rats, have died. Don't shower. Don't drink from the tap. We don't know how this spreads.

Cuddy breathes quickly; it's reflected in the heart monitor House looks at. His eyes flick back to her prone form; a sheen of sweat dampens her forehead, glues her dark locks to a suddenly pale face.

i Her coffee. i 

House is in his office again; Cuddy walks toward him, holding a file….and a cup of coffee. A porcelain cup. Water.

Reality, to the tune of a slowing heartbeat, welcomes House back. BP is dropping. Her chest is rising and falling gently now; her lips curve in a smile. He stands there, stares at her while a nurse moves toward him; in a sympathetic gesture, she pats his hand. Her fingers grasp a washcloth and she towels off Cuddy's forehead.

"Make sure that goes into the hazardous waste bin." The words are left behind. He turns his back on them, moves as fast as he can towards his office. People drift by him, moving quickly, calling family. Friends. Taking stock. Trying to remember if they've drank coffee, washed their hands. They wonder how long they'll have until the cloud of unconsciousness moves through their minds, obscuring everything in its wake. People will pour into the hospital soon enough. If they are infected, they'll die. If not, they'll most likely get infected. Nothing is sterile anymore. Nothing is clean.

House enters his office and sees an imitation of Wilson; a statue, a static representation. His cane hooks on the younger man's arm, roughly snapping him out of catatonia.

"Get up," House's voice is rougher than he wants it to be. It has to be. "How do you feel?"

Wilson turns away from House, away from enquiring eyes.

"I'm not sleepy, if that's what you mean." He stands, though, grateful for the House's consistency. The world falls away slowly, but House will always be House. "How is she?"

"We've tried everything to wake her up; painful stimuli, amphetamines. She's not waking up, and now her heart's slowing down."

"How do we fight this?" Flat hopelessness has replaced Wilson's voice. "We'll run out of water eventually."

"We'll find something." Roles reverse; House comforts Wilson as best he can and hopes the other man will be able to pull it together. They hold each other's gazes, maybe a bit too long, then break contact awkwardly. Wilson's hand goes to the back of his neck; he rubs it absentmindedly, scratches his skin and feels the scrape of his nails. He's still alive. Something moves in the adjoining room and House heads towards the door, motions for his team to follow. They stand, glad to be up, doing something instead of sitting, waiting for the world to end. Cameron's mouth moves, opens to speak and House catches sight of her flushed cheeks before she collapses. Chase catches her, lets her body fall into his until her cheek is flush against him. She murmurs something, then is seemingly gone. Asleep.

"House," A nurse is at the door, motions for him. "Hutchins collapsed."

"Who?" He doesn't have time for this.

"The nurse who was helping you with Cuddy."

"Helping.." A feminine hand, moving to soothe another's forehead. Wiping away clammy sweat. Passed.

"Moves through bodily fluids," he whispers, turning to look at Chase. He still cradles Cameron, holding on to her like an oversize rag doll.

"You've got about a half-an hour;" he says, looking him square in the eyes. "The rest of you, put on gloves. Avoid contact with any and all bodily fluids; blood, sweat, tears, urine, mucous."

Chase looks at him, mouth open, gasping for air that surrounds him. "I'm—I'm going to die?"

"It'll be a family reunion," The words slip into the air without House's permission. He apologizes, tells Chase he's sorry. This is happening too fast, he can't save him. He can't save anyone. lj-cut 


	3. Dream Awake

The virus, a newscaster reports while wearing a facemask, mutates in humans. It was only supposed to infect those who imbibed infected water, who had come into close contact with the virus. But it's changed, gotten smarter. Any contact with the bodily infusions of another will spread the infection.

The anchor's dark hair is short, neatly combed. Her voice is low for a woman, breathy, but it's soothing. Hypnotic, almost. She tells the public to stay calm; to buy enough water to live, and not a drop more. If people want to leave, she says, do so calmly.

Those already in hospitals died first; no surgeries could be done; nothing was sterile.

Canada and Mexico shut their borders twelve hours after the outbreak. The rest of the world followed suit soon after, turning around all flights from the United States. The President made as many announcements as possible; tried to renew the morale of the people. But then, twelve minutes into his speech a month after the outbreak, he collapsed. He was dead hours later.

Looting had made water scarce; liquid was getting hard to find. The virus should have been out of the water by now; it should have been safe. But it wasn't; though he couldn't publish it, a scientist had discovered that the virus replicated itself; it bonded with the hydrogen in water, moved into the mitochondrion of cells and used them to split.

Broadcast systems shut down soon after that; there was no one left to man them. A group of hackers managed to break the code on network satellites and send a packet to all developed nations. It was a cry for help, for clean medical supplies. Food. Water. The meeting point was in a land-locked state; far away from any water sources. Groups of people gathered; the story of rescue had been passed on as quickly as people could speak. Refugees from all around waited there, barely daring to hope. When a helicopter appeared, making its way toward them, hands rose in the air, beckoning it forth. They didn't expect the spray of bullets that greeted them; the brittle yellow grass would have been stained with their blood had the field not been bombed into oblivion.

Suspected settlements were eliminated, burned down to terminate the threat of international exposure.

But they were too late.

A young woman sat on the beach of the New Jersey Shore, motionless. Everyone she knew was dead. Everyone. Her fiancée, who had been alive hours earlier, had told her to save herself. To go far, far away and never come back. But go where? Do what? She was sure she'd die eventually, from dehydration if not the infection itself. So she sat by him, watched as he slipped away into dreams, into a place where she couldn't follow. She had pressed into him, pushed her face into his damp neck and breathed in his familiar scent one last time.

She got up, and feeling the sweat on her cheek, decided to go to the ocean. Adrenaline pushed through her system and she ran to the water, knowing she didn't have much time.

She died there, on the sand. Five feet from the water.

Until high tide came in.

Europe would be infected three days later; Asia four.

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House, and Wilson sit in a barricaded wing of the hospital, listening to static.

House's nimble fingers move the dial slowly, trying to find anything. A voice. Someone.

"It's not going to work," Wilson says without looking behind him. He sits in a rolling chair, staring out at the abandoned offices of the wing. They're covered in dust, but left perfectly in order, as if their inhabitants would appear any moment. As if they were alive. But they're not, and their things haven't gone untouched. House rooted through everyone's office, trying to find food or bottled liquids. He'd ransacked the pharmacy on the third day; taken every painkiller known to man, including morphine. Any why wouldn't he? If he was going to live, he wasn't about to do it in pain.

Together they had watched Cuddy die, then House's staff. House hadn't said anything, just kept his arms crossed and his mouth shut in a thin line. Wilson had gone out that first day and witnessed a world abandoned. There was no one around, not anywhere. So he went to the nearest supermarket and filled his car to the brim with food; he went again the next day. By the next week the population had been reduced to 150 million; those who were alive were looting.

No one came to the hospital anymore; it was where the outbreak had begun, after all. But Wilson wanted to barricade it anyway, so he did.

House spent most of his time at the whiteboard, trying to figure out a chemical combination that would fight the virus, suppress it. He muttered in his sleep about it, sometimes letting names slip. Wilson heard, but didn't mention it.

A month went by and they lived together, not saying much. Staying out of each other's way. Trying not to feel trapped. But they were.

It was six weeks to the day of the outbreak that something happened.

House had been laying on a bed, his eyes closed, but Wilson knew he wasn't asleep. The older man's mouth moved, and occasionally the whispered word was carried to Wilson. He was reciting the symptoms of outbreak; how the variance in time to death could mean something. He was trying to keep from going insane.

Wilson had been sitting on the floor, writing a letter. Who it was to, he didn't know. But he put his regret into it, his sadness. His mortality.

He was so immersed in writing that he didn't notice the hand on his shoulder. Before he could look up, lips were on his. Cool hands pressed into his back, drawing him in closer. Fingernails dug though his scrub top, pressed half-moons into the skin. Wilson's eyes remained open for a moment; but he wasn't surprised. Nothing really evoked that emotion anymore. But when House's tongue snaked out of his mouth, ran over his lips, begging for entry, he gasped. The chill air of the hospital framed House's tongue; the dichotomy of the sensation made him moan. House smiled into Wilson's mouth, leaned his upper body on the younger man's until he was laying on top, pressing him into the floor.

"Bed," Wilson whispered, breaking contact, pushing House's mouth away.

"No," House had replied, blue eyes laughing. He pushed Wilson back down, recaptured his mouth.

When it was over and both laid awkwardly on the floor, Wilson asked what had brought this on.

"Well, I can't exactly call a hooker," House had said, rolling his eyes.

"Seriously, House."

"What? You want me to say that I've wanted you for as long as I knew you? Come on, Wilson. The world is ending. Or, at least ours is. What do you think brought this on?" But when he had gotten up, pulled his loose scrubs on because there were only large left, his hand had brushed Wilson's. And he had laid it there a moment, head tilted away, looking at nothing. Then he was up and a gust of cool air rippled over Wilson's body in his wake.

House brought Wilson out of his memories by throwing the radio to the floor. The younger man turned, watched as House lifted his cane and tore their last tie to civilization apart.

House swore at the fragmented radio, turned his back to it. His eyes met Wilson's.

"What?"

Wilson began to speak, began to try and reason with House, but he wasn't going to be heard.

"Why don't you go take a fucking walk? Just…..leave me alone for awhile."

So Wilson did; he walked down the corridor and took the first right. The kitchens were on his left, laundry services to the right. Accounting offices back past the beds. He walked slowly, one foot deliberately in front of the other.

But something's different; the usual absolute silence of their wing has been altered. It's punctuated with a soft tapping sound…and it's close….and so familiar.

Wilson moves faster now, speeds up to find where it comes from. It echoes, throwing the trail off. He stops in front of the laundry room, closes his eyes and turns his head up to the ceiling, listening with his whole body.

A moment goes by, then another.

It's not until Wilson realizes something wet has touched his forehead that he remembers what the sound is.

Dripping water.

Fingers find their way to his forehead and they come back wet and clear; he's right. Without thinking he hears off his shirt and wipes his hands and head with it; he abandons the green cloth there, runs back to House.

"Sorry," House says upon seeing Wilson's face.

"It's fine." Wilson pulls his features into a smile, makes sure his hands are dry and pulls House close. He kisses his cheek tenderly, squeezes as hard as he can and then releases.

"God, Wilson." House looks at him strangely, but says nothing.

"I'm kind of tired, House," Wilson says, making direct eye contact. Memorizing House's features. "I think I'll take a nap."

"Ok," House agrees. He watches as Wilson moves towards his bed, then turns back to his whiteboard.

House glances at his watch; it's been hours and he's nowhere, just like always. He's hungry, though, so he turns to Wilson, who's still sleeping.

"Wilson!" When he doesn't stir, he gets up. Moves toward him.

"Come on, Wilson. Time to make dinner." But when he looks down, sees the other man's form in the bed, he backs up a few steps. Wilson is pale; his breaths are quick, shallow. His clothes and the sheets around him are damp with sweat.

"Wilson."

It's a whisper now; Wilson groans and mutters something incoherent. But then he smiles, sighs wistfully. Says a name. A name that brings tears to eyes that have been dry for years.

House's.

Now his eyes are wet; before he know what he's doing he leans down to Wilson. Halfway there he pauses; thinks. Resolute eyes stay open; lips that twitche only once cover a larger, slack mouth that is parted easily. House's tongue meets Wilson's mouth and he tastes him one last time, memorizes every curve. Every sensation.

And then he breaks away.

Half an hour later, his heart rate rises rapidly. He counts two hundred beats before he loses consciousness, collapses next to Wilson. Their heads touch.

Three hours later, his breathing begins to even out, then slow. He's dreaming now; he sees things from his past. Images flit through his consciousness and somewhere, some part of him realizes he's dreaming, but that's ok. Because in his dreams he and Wilson are having breakfast; they laugh and joke, talk about nothing. He leans across the table, meets the dark eyes of his best friend, and once again lips meet.

The kiss is a goodbye.

When it breaks, House looks at Wilson. Asks him to wait for him. Wilson smiles, tells House that he always does.

Six hours later, House dreams he's climbing up a ladder. The top is far up, but a voice calls to him. It's so familiar; he wants to see it, want to find out who it is. So he climbs faster. He gets closer to the top, sees a circle of light. A hand stretches through it, calls playfully for him to come get it. House looks down briefly into the darkness below him, then reaches up to clasp the warm hand that beckons.

Two men lay together in a bed; one is already cool. The other breaths rough, shallow breaths. After a last gasp, the chest stops rising.


	4. Don't Dream it's over Epilogue

01/12/2057

Stock Number 1123JX

Recovered from Princeton-Plainsborough Teaching Hospital, Team Three

March Thirtieth, 2007

Dear Whoever,

By the time you find this, I'll probably be dead. I know, it's a dramatic way to begin a letter. But it's true; there aren't many of us left and I know we'll go soon enough. I'm lucky. I have someone with me, someone I care about. Someone I love. I think he knows we don't have long; I see him eyeing the morphine more each passing day. I don't think he wants to kill himself; more like he wants to choose his own way out; doesn't want to wait to be infected.

I don't know what to say; it's like writing a will when you have no heirs. But I'm human; I need someone to know I was here, that I mattered. That I loved. I was head of Oncology at this hospital; House, the man who's here with me, was head of Diagnostics. In the days when the world began falling apart, he kept me safe. Kept me from getting infected. I was numb; I watched my friends and colleagues die. I didn't care.

He saved my life.

And so now we're here, slowly running out of food and water. I don't know how many other are left, if any. Sometimes I wonder if there's anyone out there; if any other countries still exist.

At least it's a peaceful way to die. Nothing too painful; I've watched countless people pass, watched as they slipped away into oblivion.

Sometimes I wonder why this happened; why there's so much hate. Why someone wanted to destroy everything. But then I realize that some people just want to destroy; they revel in it.

I'm not sure what else to write; I just want to have some meaning. I just want to know that someone will see my words and understand who I was. I am James Wilson; I was good at my job. I tried to be a good person. I have been in love. I think that's all there is; to love. And just be loved in return. It's corny, I know. But it's what I think about as I watch the walls close in around me. The world collapses around me. It gets smaller everyday.

Please, if you're reading this, know I love you. I'm never going to know you now, but I'll always love you. That's the only thing I have left to give.

I hope it's enough.

James Evan Wilson


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